Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (17 page)

He drew down both the loose sleeves of her gown until her breasts were bare, then gently cupped them in his hands and pushed them up. "That's no impediment to making love to the most beautiful woman in London." He lowered his head to kiss the swell of each.

Blanche was already halfway to passion just from simple memory. "You said 'in England' the last time," she teased softly.

He looked up and smiled, and it was his old smile. "Did I?" He swept her into his arms and headed for the stairs. "Well, that diminution of your sphere must be my tribute to the obligations of matrimony,
ma belle."
He stopped to pay tribute to each sensitive nipple. "We are in London, aren't we?"

Blanche arched and clutched him. "That or heaven, dear one."

As he laid her on the bed, he held back her hair and let it drift down last to lie all around her like a silvery pillow. "That's all right then," he whispered and lowered his head to kiss her.

Later, he leaned over her and pushed her damp hair off her face. Gently he said, "It is still goodbye, my lovely one."

Blanche stroked his smoothly muscled shoulder. "I know it, love. You're not a man to keep a mistress when newlywed. I hope you never keep one again. I'll miss you, though."

He smiled. "That's soothing to my ego. If you want, you'll have the pick of London to replace me."

"Ah, but there's not many with your beauty," she said honestly and with a cheeky twinkle. "I like to just look at you, you know. Care to come back and pose a few times?"

He laughed and sprang out of bed to strike a noble pose.

"Mmm." She lay watching as, he dressed.

When he was ready, he took a flat box from his pocket with a trace of hesitation and came back to sit on the bed. "There's always been more between you and me, Blanche, than payment," he said. "Can you take this gift in friendship, with my gratitude? I never have enough friends."

Blanche had expected a gift, and in a way she had dreaded it. It smacked too much of a baser relationship. She felt tears tickling the back of her eyes at his sensitivity, even though she should have expected it. She opened the box to see a paper which proved to be the deed to the house in which they stood. She glanced at it, but her attention was snared by what was underneath—a glittering rainbow of a necklace, exquisite flowers of emerald green, sapphire blue, ruby red, and topaz yellow.

She gasped then laughed up at him. "Lucien, you gaby. What am I supposed to do with this?"

He grinned. "Save it for your retirement?"

"I'll wear it in private if I'm feeling low." She gave him her sweetest smile. "You will always have a friend in me, my dear, and," she added carefully, "you need never fear I'll try to be more."

She looked down at the necklace for a moment and then back, frowning slightly. "I would like to say something else. About virtuous minds. There's little I don't know about men and women, love, and little I haven't experienced, but you've always treated me as a woman of honor. Virtue is a standard society puts on us, often an unreasonable one. Honor is something within ourselves. Only we can give away our honor."

Moved by her words, he kissed her hands and her lips. "I will always honor you, Blanche."

With that he was gone, and she could let the tears fall as she smiled at the ridiculously gaudy necklace.

Lucien impulsively stopped by at White's. He was in no mood for his own company and found the Belcraven mansion a bleak place unless filled with guests. He was rewarded by the sight of Con Somerford, Viscount Amleigh. The dark-haired young man was frowning as he read the day's
Times.
When he heard his name, he looked up, and the frown was replaced by a smile. "Good day, Luce."

"It's good to see a friendly face, Con," Lucien said as he took the viscount's hand. "I'd no real hope of meeting anyone I knew. I thought everyone would be in Melton still."

"Was," said the handsome young viscount as he summoned more of the claret he was drinking. "Couldn't keep my mind on foxes with all this going on." He waved the paper. "Anyway, I heard Nicholas was in Town."

That could only be the Honorable Nicholas Delaney, leader of the schoolboy clique to which they had both belonged and which had been revived the year before for more serious business. "Nick's here? Why?"

"Same thing," said Con, indicating the paper. The viscount's gray eyes turned bleak. "There's nothing to do, of course, but he must feel as sick as I do over it after all he did last year." He looked soberly into his wine. "I'm rejoining my regiment."

Lucien felt a chill. "It'll come to that again?"

"Bound to."

"God damn it all, someone should have shot the Corsican." Lucien thought of all the friends who had lost their lives in the long war. Was it all to do again? "I wish to heaven I felt free to fight. Perhaps if I have a son...."

Con looked at him quizzically. "I don't think Boney'll wait that long. You're not even married yet."

"As good as," Lucien admitted. "Notice is in the papers. Doubtless in that very one you're reading."

The viscount blinked in astonishment but then raised his glass. "Congratulations! The Swinnamer girl?"

"No," said Lucien, making a snap decision not to reveal the truth to this or any other friend. "You won't know her. Name of Elizabeth Armitage. From Gloucestershire."

"Knocked you for a loop, has she?" remarked the viscount, clearly not giving the matter much attention. "Even so, old boy, I don't think the question of Napoleon will last ten months or so. It'll be this summer and you'd do best to stay home. It'll be bloody."

"What of you? You have responsibilities now." Con had sold out the year before when he inherited the title.

"The army's short of experienced officers," said Con. "Shipped the best regiments off to the Americas when Napoleon seemed done for. Dare's offered his services at the Horse Guards. I tried to warn him off, but they'll probably find something for him to do. I think that'll be it from the Rogues. But look," he said in a brighter manner, "there's a gathering at Nicholas's tonight."

"Who'll be there?"

"Stephen," Con said, adding in a sonorous tone, "being an important man in the government." Stephen Ball was member for Barham. "And Hal."

"Hal!" exclaimed Lucien, a grin starting. Hal Beaumont had been his closest friend until their paths had split when Hal joined a line regiment and been posted to the American war. "I haven't heard from him in over a year. Thought he was still in Canada."

"Part of him still is," Con said gently. "He's lost an arm."

"Christ." Lucien stared at his friend numbly. He and Hal had been partners in so many youthful adventures, most of them depending on superb physical condition.

"Cannon exploded. He's come through it well enough. He'll want to see you. Was thinking of going up your way."

Lucien wanted to see Hal, too, but was aware of a reluctance to see him maimed and was instantly ashamed of it. "Tonight at Lauriston Street?" he confirmed briskly. "I'll send round a note. Is Eleanor here, too?"

"Of course. And the child. They're on their way to a family gathering at his brother's place. Just came up a bit early to get the latest news."

Lucien buried the shock of Hal's injury under the pleasant prospect of meeting friends. He wondered how Nicholas Delaney was now, four months after his return to England, seven months after their last meeting. That had been on the night when Nicholas had succeeded in gaining the plans of a plot to liberate Napoleon from Elba and restore him to power in France.

That success had been at great cost to himself, and in those days Nicholas had been tense and worn. His efforts had almost cost him his life, and his marriage, too. And after all the sacrifices it had all turned out to be a fraud. Or had it?

Napoleon, after all, was back in France and in power.

The beautiful Madame Bellaire had said in the end that the supporters of Napoleon had been tricked and that she was keeping the money for her own use. Had that been yet another lie? And if so, would Nicholas consider himself to blame in that he had only won the list of names from the woman and not relieved her of her ill-gotten gains?

Lucien had had letters from Nicholas which painted a pleasant picture of contentment with rural life, matrimony, and a new baby, but he'd be pleased to have it confirmed with his own eyes.

He'd be curious too to see the little Delaney. Arabel must be four months old. The babe had only been a few days old when last he'd seen her, and he couldn't say she'd shown promise of beauty back then.

* * *

That evening, when he was ushered into the elegant house at Lauriston Street the first sight to meet his eyes was Eleanor Delaney—looking finer and happier than she ever had—dressed in silk and jewels, with her baby in her arms. She turned and a wide, vivacious smile lit her face.

"Lucien!" she exclaimed as she came over to greet him. "We were so thrilled to receive your note. And you are due our congratulations." She reached his side and leaned forward for a kiss. "You must tell us all about your bride-to-be."

He had to work around a fragrant infant to kiss her cheek, which was a new experience. He looked down to be trapped by enormous gold-brown eyes fringed by outrageous lashes.

The child had incredible skin—he would never be able to call a woman's skin petal-soft again—and a sweet, soft mouth.

"Lord above, Eleanor. You can't let that loose on the world. There'll be no male left sane."

Eleanor smiled down in pride. "She is quite pretty, isn't she? But not much hair yet. There's no guarantee she'll be anything out of the ordinary later though. Babies are generally appealing."

"Appealing has nothing to do with it. She's a man-slayer."

Eleanor chuckled with pleasure at this praise. "Here," she said and passed the child over. "Be slain. I just have to have a word with Mrs. Cooke."

"Eleanor!" protested Lucien as the child settled in his arms. "Come back here!"

"Nicholas is in the drawing room," she called as she disappeared.

Lucien looked down at the child. It was disconcerting to be so readily accepted. Arabel was not the slightest bit disturbed by being in strange arms and appeared fascinated by his sapphire cravat pin. Delicate starfish fingers reached aimlessly for it. "Typical woman," grumbled Lucien with a smile. "Fascinated by something glittery. Come on. Let's find Papa."

But as he crossed the hall the thought of a child of his own became for the first time something other than a burdensome duty.

He entered the drawing room to find his host, Nicholas Delaney, talking to some members of the Company: Sir Stephen Ball M.P.; Lord Darius Debenham—third son of the Duke of Yeovil; and Amleigh. They all turned and grinned at the sight of him with a baby in his arms.

"Good Lord," said Nicholas, coming forward. "I heard you were engaged to marry, but aren't you a bit beforehand?"

Lucien couldn't help a grin, but he said, "This, if you can't recognize it, is yours."

Nicholas took the babe easily, and Arabel broke out a bright smile and a chortle. "So it is."

Lucien found simple pleasure in seeing how healthy Nicholas appeared—his skin tanned, his gold-flecked brown eyes clear and happy. He'd known from Eleanor's radiant looks that nothing had occurred to tarnish their new-built marriage, but now it was confirmed.

He hadn't realized what a burden of concern he'd carried until it was removed.

The business Nicholas had involved them all in last year had seemed a jape at first, very like the schoolboy plots they had indulged in at Harrow. It had stopped being a joke when Lucien had realized how it was hurting Eleanor to know her husband was so often with another woman; he had become a great admirer of Eleanor Delaney.

It had taken longer for him to realize how playing the lover for Thérèse Bellaire was slowly destroying Nicholas.

He hadn't really understood until the night he'd tried to be noble and distract the predatory Madame's attention to himself. She'd managed merely with a look of her eyes to make him feel raped. When Nicholas finally drew her off, Lucien had been beyond feeling noble and had merely felt grateful. The one good thing, he supposed, was that since then he'd been more thoughtful in his dealings with women, knowing how it felt to be so casually defiled.

He remembered with a touch of shame the way he'd handled Elizabeth Armitage, doing in a cruder way what Thérèse Bellaire had done to him. It had been necessary, he'd thought. But if she weren't quite as he thought....

"Trouble?" asked Nicholas softly, a smile still on his lips but his eyes serious. Trust Nick to see beyond the surface.

"Some," admitted Lucien.

"We're here for a week," Nicholas said and left it at that. "Come and help yourself to sherry. You'll have gathered we're not standing on ceremony."

The conversation was all of Napoleon. Stephen, a slender blond man with shrewd, heavy-lidded eyes, was concerned with alliances and the balance of power; Dare couldn't quite suppress his excitement; Amleigh was angry with the resolute anger of the professional soldier.

They all turned as Eleanor entered the room with Hal Beaumont at her side.

He looked the same, Lucien thought. Almost. They hadn't met for four years, and heaven knew what Hal had experienced in that time. There were new lines in his face, but his smile still quirked to the right, his dark hair still waved handsomely, and he was even taller and stronger than he had been at twenty-one. Lucien was filled with tremendous joy that his friend was still alive.